Hakarat ha-tov

Today I did something I've meant to do for a while.

As I was taking the subway back from a meeting in the city, a uniformed National Guardsman got on the train. When we got to my stop, I walked over to him and said, "thank you for what you do." He seemed kinda surprised, but he managed to say "thank you" and I walked out.

I don't know if it's the heightened tension in Israel, the fact that my dad's decided to become a volunteer policeman, or the fact that I had just come from meeting a group of individuals who embody the concept of service, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Hakarat ha-tov is something I don't take lightly. I will always be indebted to this country for having served as a haven for my grandparents and great-grandparents, for having enabled my parents to pursue educations and careers and for having provided my family and me with rights and opportunities of which our ancestors would never have dared dream.

My synagogue has adopted the custom of reciting both the prayer for the government and armed forces of the United States and that for Israel aloud and in unison. I've always been irritated by those who stand idly during the former and choose only to recite the latter. The mere existence of a robust Jewish community worshipping openly and freely in a democratic society is reason enough to give thanks for America.

The fact that America's armed forces rely solely on volunteers -- and that those volunteers do indeed step up for service -- is a marvellous testament to the spirit that drives this great nation.

Whether or not it's reshit tzmihat ge'ulatenu is irrelevant; at the very least, it's some of the sunshine, water and soil that is enabling the ge'ulah to grow and we ought never to forget the role America has played in the development and continued sustainability of Israel and the Jewish people.

The Three Weeks begin

The Three Weeks started early this year.

The thought hadn't really occurred to me until a friend of mine in Israel said something, but it's absolutely true.

I came in to work on Wednesday with a generally cheerful disposition, having read nothing more than that morning's free -- and outdated -- newspaper on the subway. When I walked into the office and people saw my obvious obliviousness, they told me what had happened. Obviously, I was upset. But it didn't really affect me.

This point was not lost on my friend in Israel when she called later that evening. She was concerned that I wasn't more upset. My father, after all, lives in Israel, my sister is visiting there, and all of my friends there are of army age or certainly candidates for reserve duty. Still, my mind was elsewhere -- I was speaking at an event, making last-minute arrangements. I couldn't think about it.

It wasn't until Avinu Malkenu at Minha on Thursday -- Shiv'ah-'Asar be-Tammuz -- that it hit me. As I stood in the back of my synagogue, I started reciting the verses silently. All of a sudden, I started relating everything I was saying to the situation on the ground.

Avinu malkenu, batel me'alenu kol gezerot kashot.

Avinu malkenu, batel mahshavot son'enu.

Avinu malkenu, hafer 'atzat oyvenu.

Avinu malkenu, kaleh kol tzar u-mastin me-alenu.

Avino malkenu, setom piyot mastinenu u-mekatregenu.

Avinu malkenu, kaleh dever ve-herev ve-ra'av u-shevi u-mashhit ve-'avon u-shemad mi-benei veritekha.

And so on.

I found myself thinking about the residents of the north, of the families of the dead and missing, of those whose whereabouts are yet unknown.

At the end of the tefillah, the rabbi came to the bimah and recited two chapters of Tehillim -- Psalms -- due to the current situation. As we read ch. 121, I found myself seeing more to that chapter than I ever had before.

The first verse embodies the speaker's anguish -- "I lift up my eyes unto the mountains; from whence shall my help come?" One can almost see the speaker looking anxiously towards the hills, wondering who will come to his aid.

"My help comes from Ado-nai, maker of heaven and earth," he tells himself, almost angrily. 'How could I ever have doubted Him?,' he asks himself.

The last six verses form a dialectic between personal and collective salvation. It is as if the speaker is trying to convince his audience that G-d's Providence extends to them as individuals, as well as to the entire nation of Israel

But most interesting, to me, is the progression inherent in the narrative. We see the speaker going from open anxiety to a sense of personal confidence that eventually allows him not only to seek comfort himself, but to comfort another individual ("He will not permit your foot to be moved") and, eventually, the entire Jewish people ("Behold, he who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps").

Personally, I found the recitation comforting and I saw in it a prayer.

May we draw the strength not only to comfort ourselves, but to support our brothers and sisters wherever they are and to strengthen the entire nation of Israel during this difficult time. And may we know the peace of G-d's watch over our goings and comings from now until forever.

Shabbat Shalom.